


Like That

by CryptoHomoRocker



Category: Ghostbusters (2016)
Genre: Domestic, F/F, Wives Being Wives Together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-30
Updated: 2016-07-30
Packaged: 2018-07-27 16:11:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7625200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CryptoHomoRocker/pseuds/CryptoHomoRocker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holtzmann does not understand memes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like That

**Author's Note:**

> SO. _Ghostbusters_ happened and I realized that Patty and Holtzmann are wives and promptly wanted one thousand stories about them doing wife stuff together. The inspiration for this nonsensical mess came partly from [this Help My Wife post](http://help-mywife.tumblr.com/post/145328057861/help-my-wife-wont-stop-pointing-at-people).

“Need me a freak like that,” Holtzmann says.

They’re curled up together on their favourite park bench, Holtzmann’s legs tucked beneath the crook of Patty’s knees, eating their way through a box of fries they bought from a stand nearby. The morning is slipping slowly into the afternoon, the air thick and warm and still. They have nowhere to go and nothing to do and for a second Patty doesn’t quite register what Holtzmann says through her golden haze of contentment.

Then she does.

“Come again?” she says, looking at her wife. Holtzmann reaches over and steals a fry, dunking it liberally in sriracha.

“I said,” she says, slower and more clearly, “need me a freak like that.”

She uses the fry to point. Patty looks.

“Holtzy,” she says. “That’s a pigeon.”

It is a pigeon. It bobs along by itself at the side of the path, not seeming to recognize that it is the subject of discussion.

Holtzmann nods. “Yeah,” she says, and takes another fry, this time swirling it around in mayonnaise. She never eats fries with ketchup, claiming that it “tastes boring.” Instead she fills her pockets with packets of whatever other condiments are at hand and rotates through each one. It is, frankly, disgusting, but not as disgusting as the fact that she willingly drinks instant coffee.

“You’re saying you need you a freak like that pigeon,” Patty clarifies, just in case.

Holtzmann blinks innocently. “Is that wrong?” she asks.

“It’s like ten different species of wrong. At least.” Patty shakes her head. She never should have taught Holtzmann the phrase, she knows that now, but she saw someone use it on the Internet one night and asked Patty what it meant. And she’d told her, like a chump, because Patty is good at a lot of things but not indulging Jillian Holtzmann is definitely not one of them. “It’s like saying ‘oh yeah, that pigeon can get it.’ Same kind of thing.”

“Ah. Okay.” Holtzmann considers this, chewing thoughtfully. She swallows, then points again. “Need me a freak like _that_.”

Patty shouldn’t look. She does anyway.

“That’s a tree,” she says. There’s no way that Holtzmann could have misunderstood her explanation, is there? The woman could probably make a teleporter out of a hair dryer and a can of beans, she must be able to comprehend a simple meme.

“Mmmhmm.” Holtzmann rolls her shoulders a little, throwing her arms back over the top of the bench. One hand brushes the back of Patty’s neck, the fingers moving just a little. Just a little, but still enough to make Patty grin and squirm.

She is such a goddamn sucker for this woman it almost makes her angry.

“There’s a word for that, you know,” she says. “For people who need that specific kind of freak.”

“Oh?” Holtzmann raises an eyebrow. Words are not her forte—they don’t explode and there is very little chance that you can use them to accidentally kill someone. But Patty likes words, their weight and power, and collects them the way that Abby collects grudges, or Erin collects hideous blazers.

“Yep. Dendrophiles,” she says. “People who want to get busy with trees.”

“Huh.” Holtzmann mouths the word to herself, turning it over on her tongue. While she’s distracted, Patty eats the last fry. She covers it in ketchup, because she is not a weirdo and understands that ketchup is the only condiment that should ever be paired with French fries.

“Need me a freak like _that_?”

Patty is now ninety percent sure that this is intentional.

“A fire hydrant,” she says flatly.

Holtzmann nods, her expression blandly unruffled. “Yep.”

“You are ridiculous.”

Holtzmann raises an eyebrow. “What, there’s no fancy word for people who want to get busy with fire hydrants?”

“There is,” she informs her. “It’s ‘ridiculous.’”

Holtzmann _is_ ridiculous. It’s not a fact that Patty ever really forgets—the goggles help there—but every now and again she realizes it all over again like it’s the first time. She’ll wake up, roll over to look at her, and think, _Holy shit, you are_ ridiculous. The thought usually comes fast on the heels of _I love you_. Sometimes she thinks they’re more or less the same thought, just wearing different clothes.

Holtzmann shrugs, then points at a passing cloud. “How about a freak like that?” she asks.

Patty sighs. “You know,” she says, “we were having a real nice day. No work, no responsibilities, just me and my baby hanging out in the park. And you had to ruin it with all your nonsense.”

Holtzmann’s response to this is to swing herself over onto Patty’s lap in one smooth motion, her arms curling tightly around her shoulders. She rests her forehead against Patty’s, close enough that she can see the faint freckles scattered across her cheeks. She could count them, if she wanted to.

She wants to.

“Need me a freak like this,” she says, and kisses the tip of her nose.

“I regret marrying you.” Patty tries to make her voice stern, compose her face, but the smile breaks through somehow anyway. Holtzmann smiles back, that slow one that starts at the very edges of her mouth, and good God, she is ridiculous, and good God, Patty is ridiculous for her.

“No, you don’t,” she says, and leans in close, pressing her face into Patty’s neck.

And… yeah. Patty really doesn’t.


End file.
